


Tidings of Comfort and Joy

by Granger4013



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Bering & Wells Holiday Gift Exchange, F/F, Music (ish) AU, New York City AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 08:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Granger4013/pseuds/Granger4013
Summary: The thin walls of one's apartment have their disadvantages, but also some advantages.Myka realizes this when her mysterious new neighbor starts playing the violin in the weeks before Christmas.





	Tidings of Comfort and Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Death to Dickens (deathtodickens)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathtodickens/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Nerdsbians!! And a very Merry Christmas to the incomparable Dickens! Whose writing I can only aim to come even remotely, minutely close to.
> 
> May this year be one of joy and happiness for you all :)
> 
> (Also...I usually loathe shifting POV, however, I had to do it to make it work...)

“Bloody cold weather…bloody snow…bloody people who demand another bloody drink at last call!” Helena kicked open the door of her apartment, attempting to take some of her pent up frustration out and promptly almost fell on her ass, the heel of her boot catching on a note that had been slid underneath her door.

She rolled her eyes, picking it up, “Oh bloody hell… _again?_ ”

It was the third note she’d gotten in the same number of days.

_Please keep the noise down. It’s distracting and kind of rude. –501_

501\. Her bloody upstairs neighbor, a crotchety mule of a man who constantly interrupted her practice by banging on his floor with what she could only assume was his cane. “Probably uses the bloody thing to trip children too…arse.” Helena tore the note up and dropped it in the garbage as she moved to the kitchen to put a kettle of tea on the stove. Notes be damned, she needed the practice, and the hours she was pulling at the bar in an attempt to make rent in the interim before her audition meant that her neighbors were going to have to deal with her _rude_ noise long past their bedtimes.

She sighed, pulling down a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and pouring a heavy dose in her mug. This would have to do until the tea was ready. She needed this audition to go well. She more than needed it, she was certain that her life depended on it. She could not, _would not_ wallow away a Julliard education behind a sticky bar for the rest of her life, but she had yet to find the one job that _stuck_. She had auditioned and auditioned and auditioned, but nothing had hit. She was two years out of school and while the rest of her classmates had wrangled gigs across the country, hell, across the globe, she languished, nothing ever fitting right, nothing ever suiting, but now…

Now, her former advisor had pulled every last string he had, called in every favor he was owed to get her this audition and she was _not_ going to waste his efforts. She needed this job, she needed to feel like all of the work she had put in to get into Julliard in the first place had been worth it, that chucking her entire life into a suitcase and leaving London, her family, everything behind for New York had not been a catastrophic mistake. Something her mother hinted at every time they talked on the phone, which was becoming less and less the more outspoken she got about Helena’s life choices. 

She took another shot of whiskey, flexing the fingers of her free hand to prepare for the hours ahead. Her cranky neighbor could write her a novel of complaints, she wasn’t skipping a night of practice, she didn’t care who could hear her.

**

“Ugh…” Myka tipped her head against the door of her apartment, blindly fumbling for her keys while simultaneously attempting to move as little as possible. Eventually she stumbled through the door, bag, purse, and three bags of groceries all making her feel more like a pack mule than a human being, then again, at the end of a semester of teaching that was usually how she felt, regardless of what she was carrying. 

She dropped everything unceremoniously on the floor, pulling a bottle of wine from the throng of groceries and moving immediately to the kitchen. If she was going to spend the entire night grading, then she was going to also need to spend the entire night drinking, and if that meant that a few of her kids got higher grades than planned, well, that was a risk she was willing to take. 

Sufficiently stocked with wine and a scrounged together dinner of cheese and a few pieces of fruit, she moved around the apartment lighting a few candles, turning on the Christmas tree, and flicking the switch that turned on the lights she had strung around her balcony. She could at least still be surrounded by Christmas cheer while she was grading. 

Begrudgingly, she finally extracted the first mountain of papers from her bag and plopped down on the couch. She decided to give herself a break and start with the papers she knew would be good. The seniors in her Shakespeare seminar were rock stars, actually interested in what they were learning and invested in what they were writing, their papers might even be _enjoyable_ to read. Her stack of freshman comp finals though…that was going to be another story, one that would require more alcohol. She could only stand so many grammatical errors and descriptions of Jane Austen as “a pretty woke chick” before she wanted to stab her pen through her eye. 

A deep breath, a deeper gulp of wine, and Myka pulled the first paper toward her, an analysis of the supernatural elements of Macbeth as viewed through a 21st century lens. “Should be interesting…” she mumbled and flipped past the title page, words swarming off the paper at her and already making her head feel heavy.

“Maybe I should save this for tomorrow…” A small yawn escaped her throat, but then…the music started.

Myka had noticed a slew of moving guys trekking up and down the hallway earlier in the month, had heard the knowing plod of boots back and forth next door, had heard the scraping of furniture over and over again to make sure the angle was _just right_ , but she had yet to actually _see_ the person who had moved into the previously, blissfully, vacant apartment next to her. Minus the typical moving noises, Myka had barely heard a peep from whomever now resided next door, which had caused her to debate whether a vampire had moved in or someone who never actually _lived_ in their own apartment. Her building was in an older part of New York, one that still retained a decent amount of its mid-century charm, even while the world grew up around it. It was part of what Myka loved about the building, why she refused to move closer to campus despite the bitch of her commute; she loved its quirks, its character, its warmth, how it wrapped you in its arms and somehow made you forget you were in the middle of the city while simultaneously making you feel the city pulse around you. However, the downside of an old building was, aside from the shitty plumbing, painfully thin walls. The closest she had come to moving out had been when her previous next door neighbors consistently and constantly woke her up at three in the morning with either their extremely loud fighting or their even louder make-up sex. Yet, that still hadn’t deterred her, and they had thankfully broken their lease after three months.

Music though…particularly this kind of music…was a first. 

It started so softly at first that Myka wondered if she was just hearing things, but as the cadence accelerated and the volume paced through a crescendo, it became clear that the music was coming through their shared wall. Myka knew next to nothing about music, but she could at least tell two things, her next door neighbor played the violin and played it damn well. Whatever it was they were playing sounded intricate and complex, notes moving and shifting with a grace and balance that made Myka drop her pen for a moment and listen. It was lovely…so lovely it didn’t even bother her that she could hear it through her living room wall. 

She took another drink of wine, letting the music flow through her living room, take up space there and provide a soundtrack to her grading. It was actually rather relaxing, until…

_“Shit…bloody bollocks…shit.”_

The music came to a startling stop, replaced by a tirade of cursing from her neighbor which was somehow louder than the music had been. 

Myka knew she should be annoyed, music was one thing, raging rants of British swearing was another, but all she could do was chuckle. Whomever it was that lived next door, _she_ , if the voice was any indication, was passionate about what she was playing. Myka heard a few pacing stomps before the music picked up again, back at the beginning. 

The same cycle repeated itself at least six times, the music flowing beautifully, perfectly, until it broke off into a string of fucks and bollocks, before finally, _finally_ , it hit. Whatever notes were tripping her neighbor up, she had conquered them.

“’Atta girl,” Myka murmured, returning her attention to her papers.

Somehow, her grading was going faster with the musical accompaniment, even when it was punctuated with constant interruptions and restarts. By the end of the night, she was certain she had the beginning of the piece memorized herself. 

Myka marked the last paper she could possibly read, a remarkably cogent analysis of the gender conflicts present in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and stood up stretching her back until it popped uncomfortably. She glanced at the clock, 2 am. 2 am and she was barely halfway through one class; it was going to be a long week. 

Things next door had been quiet for long enough that Myka wondered if she’d outlasted her neighbor, but then out of nowhere, a new piece started. It was different from the first, slower, more melancholy, gorgeous. Despite the way her muscles cried for sleep, Myka moved across the room to the balcony door, leaning against it, letting the sharp coldness from the window keep her awake a few minutes longer. She stared out into the city she loved, watching the snow come down and glisten with the shadow of her multi-colored twinkle lights, all the while her neighbor just kept playing and playing, a lullaby Myka hadn’t even realized she had needed.

**  
It became a nightly rhythm. Myka would wait to begin her grading until she heard the knowing strains of her neighbor beginning to tune her strings. She would pour herself some wine and let the music guide her through the pages before her. 

By the end of the week, Myka was certain _she_ had the piece memorized, engrained into her head by sheer and constant repetition. She knew the parts that were causing her neighbor, her still as yet to be seen neighbor, trouble. She knew the parts that she had started skipping or racing through because she had them down cold. During the day, she found herself humming bits and pieces of it, finding that it calmed her, brought a smile to her face that she didn’t quite understand. 

Even when Myka had finished her grading, said goodbye to another semester, the music never stopped, never faltered, over and over and over again the piece rang through her apartment. It became the soundtrack to her late night reading, to her sleepless nights, up staring at her computer willing the words to just _come_ so that she could stop stalling on the novel she was working on, though she was loathe to let anyone know that it existed. Everything she did after midnight was heightened by violin. 

More than once, Myka found herself standing outside of her neighbor’s apartment, hand raised, poised to knock, to let them know how much she appreciated it, to just _introduce_ herself, but every time she backed down, retreated into the quiet comfort of her apartment. She told herself it would be weird and intruding to just come right out and tell someone that she’d basically been eavesdropping on their practice, intentionally listening to someone whom she was certain thought they were only playing for themselves. She wondered if that’s why they waited until late to play, waited until everyone was asleep so that they could have the space, the quiet, the building to themselves.

Yet, as the days drew closer and closer to Christmas, as Myka grew more and more nostalgic for Colorado winters and time with her family, time which wouldn’t be happening this year, because her parents decided that if her sister was going to her in-laws, then they would just go on vacation, Myka’s fear of overstepping receded. 

Three days before Christmas, Myka scribbled a quick note and slipped it underneath her neighbor’s door. 

**

Helena heard the note before she saw it, heard the tell-tale slide of paper against her wooden floors. She groaned, she wasn’t even playing! She glanced at the clock, 9:30, she usually didn’t start practicing until well after 10, so maybe this was simply pre-emptive on the part of her vindictive toad of an upstairs neighbor, get his digs in early before she even started. 

As she moved to pick the note up, she heard the door next to hers open and shut hastily. Intrigued, she read the elegant, hasty scrawl of a note:

_You play beautifully…but do you take requests? Maybe some Christmas music to change things up? ~MB_

Helena thought she had caught glimpses of the woman she believed to live next door, a hasty flip of curly hair just turning away from her mailbox next to Helena’s in the lobby, a quick flash of heeled boots coming in her door as Helena was leaving hers. There’d never been a chance to say hello, but Helena realized she felt like she _knew_ this woman somehow. She knew the jangle of her keys as she fiddled with them, _constantly_ fiddled with them, before unlocking her door. She knew that she kept as odd of hours as Helena, coming and going later than most. She thought on occasion she heard the click of feverish typing late at night and she was certain that the woman enjoyed wine, the tell tale pop of a cork being released heard frequently. 

Helena wondered how much her neighbor had been listening, how often? Enough to provide commentary on her playing, enough to feel bold enough to make requests, apparently. Helena sighed, she needed to practice a little bit more. Her audition was tomorrow. Tonight was all she had, but maybe…

**

The music stayed the same.

Myka sighed as she sank in front of her computer with a glass of wine. At least she had tried. She knew it was a stretch at best, a gross overstepping of boundaries was more likely. She tried to sink into her writing, with the addition of the music the last few weeks, she’d actually felt like she had made progress, but tonight nothing was sticking. She kept writing and re-writing the same paragraph.

Finally, she pushed away from her desk and gave it up as a lost cause for the night. The music had stopped, she’d barely noticed it, but her apartment _and_ her neighbor’s were starkly quiet. For a few brief minutes, all she could hear was the quiet plink of ice hitting her balcony. She settled in front of her tree and pulled her book into her lap, it was late, but she wasn’t tired. 

It started the second she touched her bookmark…

Myka felt like she was eight years old again, holding her Mom’s hand as they walked into the Denver Opera House to see Myka’s first ballet…The Nutcracker. Music which Myka knew like it lived in the fiber of her bones echoed around her apartment. It was different, just hearing the violin’s interpretation of what was usually a cacophony of flutes and brass and drums, but somehow it was _more_. She wanted to tell herself that it felt this way because she missed home, because she was feeling nostalgic and sappy and had had far too much wine, but she knew that had nothing to do with it. It felt this way because it was _for her_. This woman she didn’t even know, had never seen, had never talked to, was playing this for her, because she had asked, and somehow without even knowing it, was playing exactly what Myka wanted to hear. 

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of non-stop Christmas music. All for Myka. _Just_ for Myka.

**

The next morning when Helena went to leave for her audition, there was another note under her door. She recognized the writing immediately.

_Thank you. Merry Christmas. ~MB_

She smiled. She was going to take this audition by storm.

**

Christmas Eve found Myka out on her balcony, a mug of cocoa in hand, craving the chill of snow and the sound of a city descending into holiday jubilation. Church bells were ringing intermittently and the stray strain of carolers carousing reached her on the wind. It finally felt like Christmas. It was snowing heavily, every apartment around her was aglow in twinkle lights, and she still had the sounds of The Nutcracker echoing in her mind.

The sound of a sliding glass door opening next to her jarred her out of her quiet reverie. A knowing smile tugged at her lips, it had to be her. She tilted her head to the side and realized she _had_ seen her mystery neighbor before, had been struck dumb by the sheer, insane beauty of the woman the other day in the lobby. Her long black hair was tucked over her shoulder, she was bundled up in a bulky sweater that Myka found utterly adorable, and she had a glass of wine in her hand. She offered Myka a soft smile, a raised glass, a silent toast.

They stood in silence, both breathing in the city for several long, slow minutes, until Myka couldn’t take it anymore, she _had_ to know. She eyed her neighbor with a smile, “How was the audition?”

The woman visibly startled, “How…how did you know?”

Myka chuckled, “You’ve been playing the same piece over and over and over for weeks. You’ve been muttering to yourself over every tiny, completely unnoticeable mistake, and you didn’t play it last night, so I figured…”

“Astute woman.” The woman smiled, her teeth tracing over her lower lip as if trying to hide some kind of inner exuberance, “I got a call back.”

Myka had no idea why she was beaming, but she was most certainly _beaming_ , “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, though I must warn you, the next piece is longer and infinitely more difficult. There will be more muttering.”

“Good, I’ll get more work done. You’ve been the best writing inspiration I’ve had in months.”

The woman raised an eyebrow in interest, “You’re a writer?”

“I’m a professor…with woeful aspirations to get this novel out of my head.”

“Well then, I shall keep playing, do my part to keep the words flowing.”

“I appreciate that.” Silence engulfed them once more, comfortable but steady, until Myka broke it again, “The Nutcracker was beautiful by the way.”

This time the woman smiled fully, and it damn near took Myka’s breath away. The woman pushed her hair back from her forehead, “I hoped you’d like it.”

“You knew it was me that asked?”

“I heard your door click right after it came under my door, it was a lucky guess…and maybe a sliver of hope. You were the first person to leave a _kind_ note.”

Myka chuckled, “Let me guess, crotchety guy with the cane upstairs?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Laughter danced from the woman’s throat, “He’s a bloody beast and utterly rude.”

“I’d play louder if I were you.”

“Can I direct him your way the next time he complains then?”

“By all means, he’s yelled at me before too, I can handle him.”

The snow began to fall harder eliciting a shiver from both Myka and her neighbor. Myka laughed softly, “Probably time to go back in before we freeze. Congratulations again, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too…” The sentence lingered on as a question.

“Myka…I’m Myka, probably should have mentioned that earlier.” Myka cringed inwardly as she felt a blush flare into her cheeks.

“Quite alright. I didn’t mention it either, so all is fair. I’m Helena.”

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream…Helena.”

“I’m guessing you teach Shakespeare.”

“I do, at Columbia.”

“Well…bestill by British heart.” The woman smiled again, this time with a hint of something Myka couldn’t quite place, though it made her heart beat harder.

Myka grinned, “A topic for next time. Good night, Helena.”

“Next time…good night, Myka.”

**

When Myka padded out into her living room with her cup of coffee Christmas morning, there was already Christmas music coming through her walls, this time a jubilant, vibrant rush of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” As she turned to plug in the Christmas tree, her eye caught a hint of white on the floor by her door.

She picked up the note, already feeling an odd warmth moving through her chest.

_Shakespeare and Christmas dinner at my place? ~HW_

Myka went to the shared wall between her and Helena’s apartment and knocked on it loud enough to be heard over the music. She heard Helena’s bow catch on the strings, a small chuckle, and then Helena’s voice, “Yes, darling?”

“What time?”

“Is now too early for dinner?”

“It’s 9 am…”

“Christmas breakfast then.”

Myka was certain she was beaming, “I’ll be right there.”

“The door is open.”

As Myka practically ran into her bedroom to change, Helena’s violin picked up the opening notes of “Joy to the World.”


End file.
